The Peak of Inspiration

In the files of my memory is a folder called “Donations” with a sub-folder labeled “Blood Drive”.  It has pictures of my dad, leaving the yard to give blood at the community center, coming home with gauze taped to his arm.  He gave as often as he could, for as long as he could.  Eventually his blood became poisoned with some stuff called cancer and that was that.  The blood drives in that area were hosted by Red Cross, and they kept a running total of how much each donor had given.  My mom found records indicating that he gave over five gallons, maybe even six.  Blood given to people he would never see.  People without a name, but with a need.   

I haven’t donated much blood.  But the other day, I heard of a blood drive.  I instantly thought of my dad and his willingness to give what he could.  So, accompanied by his memory and the example he set, I signed up and made the drive.  I felt my arm cool as they swabbed the inside of my elbow, and willed myself to stay calm as the nurse inserted the needle into my arm.  And then I watched as life flowed out of me.  It made me wonder, where is this going?  Will it do some good?  Will someone live because this very blood runs through their veins?  Will the heart monitor not flat line, will the surgeon gain a few precious minutes to close the holes, will the family of some child not go home with an empty carseat, will a child somewhere have another Christmas with their mother?

There is life in the blood.  Life is carried by it.  It is absolutely vital to our continued existence.   It’s a precious substance.  And if it is that valuable, if it means life itself, well, then, to have the opportunity to give it away, that should be counted a privilege.   

There is another folder label that reads “Hard Work”.  It is very thick.  Packed to capacity with images of a family man doing what he could to provide for his own.  Pictures of sweat stained caps.  The sound of him taking a long drink from the green Pioneer water jug.  The feeling of brushing against his cool, sweat covered arms. Watching as the responsibility of providing for a family showed on his face and trickled down his neck. 

Sweat is a sign.  It’s the evidence of dedication to a cause.  Sweat doesn’t lie. It shows that you are willing to endure discomfort, that you will work through the heat, and fight the desire to quit.  It is a demonstration that you understand that another’s success depends on your sacrifice.  It is through sweat that promises are kept, and the vow is paid.  It seems to me that sweat is voluntary.  And, when it is given on your behalf from someone that loves you, well, I can’t describe that feeling.

Maybe in some strange way, in some obscure place, a place that we know is real not because we can see it, but because we can feel it, all the blood and sweat given for us is absorbed and mixed.  It becomes another element.  This new substance migrates upward and finds a spot somewhere behind our eyes.  It takes on a will and quality all of its own.  We carry it with us.  It is also evidence.  Evidence that the blood and sweat given for us were not in vain.  That those sacrifices, those gifts, were not unnoticed.  That they did, and are, fulfilling their purpose and intent. 

Tears are a witness.  They silence the crowds wondering if the blood and the sweat were worth it.  They quiet the skeptics and make people everywhere bow their heads in respect and reverence.  They are the proof that the blood did give life, that dedication and commitment were not without result.

Tears are the answer.  Not in the sense that they solve anything or are the cure for any particular ailment.  But in the way that they hold the key to a riddle.  Blood + Sweat = Tears.  Take a teardrop, place it under a microscope, and you will find that it had its beginnings in the blood and sweat of another.

So, when you see a tear in another’s eye, or feel one form and spill out of your own, you can rejoice.  Rejoice to know that you were loved.  That someone found you worthy.  Worthy enough to sweat and bleed for you.

Life in the blood, dedication in the sweat.  And love is in the tears.